Eighth Grade
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: A chronicle of Craig's year in 8th grade, the year when things went from bad to worse with his father and there was no way out.
1. Chapter 1

In eighth grade he lived just outside of Toronto, just him and his dad. He liked the nights his dad worked late, the quietness of the house. And his dad could be cool, bringing him out to eat at fancy places, helping him study for science tests and he needed that help. With science it was like he just couldn't get it. But there were other times, his dad quiet and stressed out, times when Craig could feel it coming. If not one day it would be the next, and any excuse would do for his dad to lose his cool.

He'd been seeing Angela and Joey every so often, not the regular weekend visits like when his mom was alive but often enough to let him see there was a different way to live. When Angela would spill something or break something or argue with Joey Craig would tense up, waiting for Joey to explode. And sometimes he did, sometimes Joey yelled at Angela, calling her "Angela Elizabeth" or he'd leave the room in disgust but it was never like, well, how it was at his house.

Then his dad would be there to pick him up, not coming into the house on general principle, not engaging in the small talk Joey attempted. He wouldn't even look at Angela.

"Ready, Craig?" he'd say, his words terse. And Craig would nod and sometimes look longingly at Joey, thinking so loud in his head, 'let me stay' that it seemed Joey should be able to hear him. But he never did.

That was the year he'd stopped inviting friends over to his house. It was just safer that way. Because sometimes his dad was cool but other times, he just didn't know and couldn't risk it. That was the year things started to get worse.

Science was going to be the death of him. Ecosystems, geology and biology, dissecting fetal pigs, their insides just a colorful mess that meant nothing to him, how could he possibly pass? And how could he be so bad at science when his father was a doctor? A surgeon, no less? Wasn't that science? It certainly was an aptitude that hadn't been passed down to him. He trudged home, his bag filled with science books and notebooks and he hoped for once that his dad would be home, to help him make sense of it all. He never knew when his dad would be home or not, he was on some weird rotating schedule that involved covering for other surgeons if they happened to be on vacation. He never knew what sort of mood his dad would be in, either. Didn't know if he'd smile and ask him about his day or if he'd strap him with that goddamn leather belt he wore, the belt coming out of the belt straps so fast, arcing through the air with that sound. Every day was a mystery.

"Shit," Craig said, the house silent, the air heavy and still. He wouldn't dare swear in front of his dad. He had once.

"Goddamn it!" Craig said, throwing his school bag onto the coffee table, kicking off his sneakers so they slammed against the wall. Without his father's help with this he'd fail the test for sure, and then what would happen? What if his dad found out about the stupid F on a day when he was stressed out? But it wasn't just his father's reaction to a failing grade that had Craig upset. He wanted to do well on it because he wanted to, for himself. And now he wouldn't be able to.

Maybe, he thought, his dad wouldn't be that late today. Sometimes he wasn't. Maybe he'd still have time to study with him.

"Goddamn it," Craig said, but softly, resigned. He got himself a glass of juice and drank half of it, set it down on the table. Maybe he'd be able to figure enough of it out to do halfway okay.

He had the T.V. on but muted it so he could puzzle over the science notes without the tinny distraction of the T.V. voices. It was a mess. Books, notebooks, reference books spread all over the couch and the coffee table, none of it making sense, his eyes blurring as he tried to read his own tortured scrawl he called handwriting.

Five o'clock, then six, the light dimming in the sky, no sign of his dad's fancy car pulling into the driveway. No luck. He made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it standing in the kitchen, watching the last inch of light fade away.

"What in the hell is this?"

Craig bolted awake at the sound of his dad's voice, that steel pitch of anger making his heart start to beat too fast. He must have dozed off in the living room in the middle of studying, every light blazing.

"N-nothing, I just-"

"You just leave every light on and food in the kitchen!"

He blinked. The clock said 11 p.m.

"No, I just-"

"You, Jesus, Craig, I work all damn night and what do I get? What do I come home to? A fucking mess!"

Craig looked at him with round eyes, his breathing fast and shallow. He stood up, wanting to leave, wanting to go up to his room and be left alone, but his dad was blocking the way. He shoved him down and Craig stumbled back and fell. He tensed up, instinctively covered his head with his arms as his dad punched him again and again and again.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been happening so much, his dad losing his temper. Craig looked around, dazed. His dad had left. He didn't know where he went, maybe just into another room. He went upstairs carefully, not sure of just how badly he'd been hurt.

Upstairs, in his bed, he felt so bad. Worthless bad, like he didn't matter. No matter how hard he tried he kept making his dad angry. He couldn't do anything right. Lying there, looking at the yellow light from the streetlights out his window, the pain was going away. It was being replaced by that funny numb feeling, that beyond hurt feeling, the body's reaction to pain. Endorphins. Craig felt almost like he was floating, like he was slipping toward sleep because he'd been drugged. It was late now. Past midnight. And he had that science test tomorrow. He felt so weird and sleepy but he couldn't get to sleep, he'd fail the test, his dad would get so mad…

Next day, alarm going off at its accustomed time. Craig groaned and rolled over to shut it off. In the shower, the hot spray of water feeling so good, he lifted his arms to wash his hair and wondered why it hurt so much to do that, already putting it behind him, forgetting. But the pain made it hard to forget and he said it softly, "oh, yeah…"

His dad acting like nothing happened, too, so that made it easier to pretend. Craig dutifully wore his long sleeve shirts so no one would see the bruises.

At school he looked at everyone with hooded eyes, thinking how they weren't going home to such unpredictable behavior. He saw the other kids laughing, wearing whatever they wanted to, and he knew they didn't have to put up with what he did. Put up with it. And the science test hanging over his head like a sword.

It was hard to stay awake in class, the soft monotones of the teachers' voices making him feel so sleepy, looking out the windows, his worries and thoughts softly running together. He thought maybe he could be good enough now, good enough so that his dad wouldn't get angry at him again. He'd do everything right. Get good grades, not leave food out in the kitchen or glasses of juice on the table without coasters and he'd come home on time, he would. He promised he would.

"Craig!" His teacher, Mr. Zibel, said his name so sharp. Craig jumped.

"Huh? What?"

"Where are you? Off in lala land? Would you care to join the class?"

"Um, I'm sorry, sir. It was, it was just a late night last night,"

"You must have a lot of late nights,"

The science test, his heart sank when he turned it over. He hadn't studied any of the right stuff, if his dad could have helped him, he always knew what he should be studying. All that work last night and all of it for nothing. He didn't know any of these answers. None of this made sense to him.

As the day went on he forgot that beating more and more until it was like it never happened. And the vague thoughts about being better, not making his dad so mad were still there but sort of underneath everything else. It wouldn't happen again, of course not. It couldn't. He couldn't live like this.

At home, his dad home, making supper, asking how his day was. Calling him Craigger.

"Pretty good, I guess," Craig said, eating chips from the big bag on the table, licking the salt off his fingers.

"You guess?"

"Yeah, well, I had this science test I don't think I did too good on,"

"Quit eating those chips. You'll ruin your dinner,"

Craig rolled up the bag and shoved it away from him, watched his dad stir some vegetables in the skillet with a wooden spoon.

"Did you study?" Albert said, looking at him.

"Yeah, all night. But I don't think I studied the right stuff,"

"Don't worry about it. I'll help you study for the next one," Albert looked at him with that look that seemed to say everything would be okay. Craig smiled and nodded. He hoped it would be. He really did.


	3. Chapter 3

Things were going along, studying with his dad, playing sports with the kids at school, his classes. Going over his friends' houses sometimes, but never inviting them to his house. He was scared to.

Weeks went by, a month, and Craig could wall the memories of the violence off in a room in his mind. Entombed. He didn't have to deal with it now.

Always walking that tight rope of trying to please him, trying to not get in his way, trying to follow all of his rules. At the end of the day it made him tired, gave him a dull headache, his teeth hurt from being clenched.

"Report cards today," his friend Seth said at lunch. Seth had bright red hair, such an odd intense color that Craig couldn't help staring at it.

"Yeah," The school mailed them. Craig licked his lips.

"How do you think you did?" Seth said, spearing a cube of turkey with his fork.

"Okay," But he was worried. He hadn't done well on a couple of science tests. He looked out over the cafeteria, heard the babble of the different conversations like one freaky voice. He shook his head. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought.

Snapping a few pictures after school but his heart wasn't in it. Everything was out of focus. He wanted to throw his camera to the ground, smash it. He just let it swing from the strap around his neck, squinted into the sun. He'd have to go home sooner or later. Maybe his dad was working late tonight. Maybe he was going out with some colleagues or something. Maybe he wouldn't be home.

Sun going down, the sky red and orange. Craig could see the sunset colors reflected in his camera lens. He got a bad grade in science for sure. He walked slowly home.

He saw his dad's car in the driveway and walked past it. Shifted his school bag from one shoulder to the other. The closed door looming ahead of him. Craig's nerves were crawling, his breathing fast and shallow. He heard the door seal give as he opened it and stepped on the plush hallway rug. From here he could see his father sitting at the kitchen table, letters in front of him. The overhanging light illuminating him like someone under cross examination in those old cop shows.

"Hey, dad,"

Silence. Craig closed his eyes, leaned against the wall. He saw the reflection of the living room in his dad's glasses, saw how his hands were together in that prayer position, elbows on the table. He failed science. That was what it was. And his dad was pissed.

He went up to his room, kicked off his sneakers, threw his jacket on the bed. Glanced at the picture of him and his mother. How old had he been then? Seven? Eight? His dark hair hung down in heavy bangs across his forehead in the picture, his mom smiling next to him. He looked at her face. He remembered looking at this picture and how she looked in this picture but he felt like he couldn't remember her, not really. Not anymore.

His door slammed open, his father stood in the doorway.

"Craig," Craig jumped back, the tension from all day released in his action. That set to his dad's jaw, the narrowed eyes, the envelope like an accusation in his hand. Craig stared up at him.

"You failed science," The words were flat, spoken quietly. But Craig saw the anger that simmered just beneath the surface of those quiet words.

"Craig, you know how important your studies are," Still quiet, but the narrowed eyes were widening, and he saw his hand go for his belt. Nowhere to go, his room shrinking around him, and that belt was out of the belt loops in one smooth motion and cracking down on him, cutting across his back.

"Goddamnit, Craig!"

Craig had crouched, tried to cover his head, and he felt the leather belt cut into his shoulders, his back, his thighs, every place that was touched by it stinging, and if it struck the same place twice he'd cry out in pain. Over and over again it crashed down on him until he could barely feel it anymore.

He'd hardly noticed that it stopped, but it had. His door was shut, the report card that had come in the mail crumbled up and lying a few feet from him. He felt stiff from the crouched position and straightened up, his skin feeling raw from the belt. He was crying, too, he could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks and he wiped them away, feeling stupid for crying. His bag was filled with his textbooks and the assignments he had to do. But he couldn't do them. Fuck it. Let him get detentions and then his dad could beat him again. He didn't give a shit.

He took his shirt off and it hurt to do it. Everything hurt. The belt was the worst. Punches and kicks didn't hurt nearly as much. Maybe he could go to school tomorrow and show the nurse the welts on his back, and then she'd call children's aid and he wouldn't have to worry about this anymore. For a second he thought he'd do that, but then shook his head. He couldn't do that.

He left his curtains open so the streetlights lit his room, and he could see all his things in that dark shadowy way. He could see the picture of him and his mom, and he could see his smiling expression but he couldn't see her at all. She was in a shadow.


	4. Chapter 4

Now the sun was shining in full force through his windows, and still he couldn't see his mom in the photo because of the glare off the glass frame. He got up and felt hurt but wouldn't let himself think of why. Took a shower and didn't think, just went through the motions of his morning. He was getting better and better at not analyzing everything, just doing things. Shower, eat breakfast, go to school, watch T.V.

"Craigger," His dad, making breakfast, and that nick name made him cringe. Before he could stop himself he glared at him and the thought rose up like being spoken in his head, _I hate you_. Then he got himself together. Smiled.

"Hey, dad,"

"Listen, do you need a ride home from school today?" He set the toast and the eggs down in front of him, the small glass of juice on a coaster. Craig sipped the juice, stalling. Did he want him to want a ride or not? He couldn't tell if he had a hidden agenda with that question. He didn't want to make the wrong choice.

"Uh, well…"

"Because I can pick you up, it's no problem. We could go to the mall, maybe get that new game system you've been talking about,"

Craig closed his eyes, felt a twinge of pain in his back. He got it now. A gift. A bribe. That's what his dad wanted.

"No, uh, I mean, yeah, sure. We could do that," Craig said, and looked at his dad from the corner of his eye.

School. He felt like he had gym class every day and he couldn't skip it again. They'd notice. Someone would notice. Wouldn't they? He was going to suck it up and go. He'd just go.

"Hey, Manning, don't you usually skip?"

Craig looked up from tying his sneaker, his foot up on the bench, lockers on both sides of him. He didn't really know the kid talking to him, some huge kid who was going to play football next year.

"Uh, yeah, usually,"

"So what are you doing here now?" The kid's straight dark blond hair hung straight across his forehead, and he smiled like he was just toying with him. Craig felt himself getting angry. He was always getting angry.

"I just decided to go," he snapped.

"Okay, whatever, man," The kid smiled but left him alone. Craig closed his eyes, noticed a fading yellow bruise on his leg, dug around in his locker for some sweatpants to wear instead of shorts.

Lunch. Sitting across the table from Seth and his unreal red hair. Craig picked at his food.

"So I heard you went to gym,"

"Yeah, so?" Craig looked up, bit into the carrot on his fork. It was dried up and flavorless.

"So, you never go to gym. It's like you gave it up for lent or something,"

He pushed the food around his plate. The school lunch was pretty disgusting. He remembered that his dad was picking him up after school. He didn't feel like it. Didn't feel like seeing him right after school, when his defenses were low. Didn't want to go to the mall and get some play station thing his dad would just end up smashing anyway.

"So how'd you do on your report card?" Seth said, his dark eyes sparkling with interest. Craig licked his lips.

"Not that great,"

"Was your dad pissed?"

"You could say that,"

After school. Craig waited on the steps, his bag over his shoulder. Watched the buses pull away so slowly, like some huge animal lumbering up enough momentum to take off. Watched the other parents of the other kids come and pick them up, watched as the other parents waited for their kids. One lady with hair the color of straw smoked a cigarette and closed her eyes like she had a headache. One guy read the newspaper and drank coffee from a little paper cup. One woman turned around in her car to talk to a sticky faced toddler. Then he saw his dad's fancy car glide up, his dad's impassive face behind the wheel.

Craig took a deep breath, felt the pull in his muscles he'd been feeling all day. He headed toward the car.

"Craig," his dad said, and he was being cheerful.

"Hi, dad,"

"Ready to hit the mall?"

"Yeah,"

He flipped through the radio stations. His dad didn't mind if he did that, he let him listen to the stations he wanted to. He found a nice indie type rock song and stared out the window, his bag down by his feet. _Don't talk to me_, he thought, glancing at his dad, _don't talk to me._

"How was school?"

"Good,"

The mall. Craig trailed a few steps behind his father as they went through the stores, and he honestly didn't care about the play station, the X-box. Apathetic. But he understood that he had to appear to be pleased with it, because it was forgiving his dad in a way.

At home, supper made, and he had to admit his dad wasn't a bad cook. He was on his best behavior. This day had just worn on his nerves. Craig chewed the roast beef, the perfectly roasted vegetables. He wasn't hungry. He didn't dare not eat. He didn't dare incur his father's anger again, although after last night it would be awhile before something happened again. He knew. He knew that. It was how it worked.

Upstairs, the new X-box shiny and state of the art on the floor, his textbooks stacked on his desk. He could actually get to some homework today, since he didn't feel so…destroyed. He sighed. Touched his back where it hurt the most.

The picture of his mom, of him and his mom, he took it down and tried to stare through the glass at her. Tears almost came to his eyes, but he willed them away. He couldn't remember her. Not at all.


	5. Chapter 5

The minute he walked in the door Craig knew, this would not go well. He had been sitting at the kitchen table looking at some of his homework but not exactly doing it. Then his father walked through the door, slammed it behind him, and glared at him.

He looked down at the table, wondering how he could leave as unobtrusively as possible. More things slammed, cabinet doors and briefcase. Craig breathed out through his mouth and wished he was somewhere else. Wished it so bad he could taste it.

He figured his weeks of grace were just about up. His father's tense mood made him fidget, made him bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He thought desperately of anything he had done recently that might make his dad mad, couldn't think of anything but that didn't mean anything. Craig stayed at the table, stayed still, his eyes on one of his open textbooks. The words might as well have been Japanese characters for as much as he could understand them.

Sometimes this was worse. The waiting. The anger that was building. The myriad of physical signs that pointed to his father's eventual loss of control. The narrowed eyes. The clenched fists. The slamming everything he could get his hands on. The tone of steel in his voice. Craig felt like a fish hooked on a line, nothing he could do but wait to get gutted.

Sometimes, because he couldn't stand it, Craig would intentionally provoke his father at this point, just to get it over with. That beating in whatever form was coming. Punches. Kicks. Being slammed into a wall, thrown to the floor, strapped with the belt. It was coming.

Carefully, slowly, he closed his books. Stacked his papers, put them in order, put everything one by one into his school bag. Kept one eye on his father as he mixed up some drink in the kitchen. Watched as Albert ran a hand through his hair in the same distracted, stressed gesture that Craig used. Watched as he took off his glasses, closed his eyes and pressed at the corners with his index finger and thumb. He looked like he had a headache. Craig kept watch. Work must have been bad. Very bad.

Craig went into the living room, walking softly. He didn't even dare turn on the T.V. so he just looked out the window, at the curving driveway smooth and black like some sleeping snake, at the edge of the garage. Breathing soft and shallow, blood pounding through his veins. He bit his lip, peeked back into the kitchen. Albert hadn't moved.

It was building. He saw Albert sitting at the kitchen table, saw his hands in the praying position, saw everything with this hyper alertness. Adrenaline started pumping through his body and he wanted to run, wanted to do something. Nothing to do. Yet.

Too quiet. All Craig could hear was his own breathing. More slamming of cabinets, the swears under his father's breath. The tension was nearly visible. Nothing to do. The view out the window was boring. He held his breath, heard the swears in the kitchen getting louder.

He went upstairs to his room before his dad could come into the living room, put on his CD player, tried to ignore the fact that his father was super pissed and holding most of it in. There was the single hard knock on his bedroom door. Dinner was ready.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Craig chewed and swallowed the food but his mouth felt dry. He wasn't hungry. Kept scrambling in his head for neutral things to say. Couldn't think of any. There was only him there. No one else to take some of the pressure off. There was that hard look in his father's eyes, that unapproachable air all around him. Nothing to say. Nothing to say.

Light faded from the sky in increments. Craig kept glancing around, looking at the darkness against the windows, looking at the food on his plate, the set of his father's jaw.

The phone rang, jarring the heavy silence into jagged little bits and Craig answered it.

"Hello? Hi, Seth, what's up?" As Seth started talking he saw the already dark look in his father's eyes get darker and he stared at him helplessly.

"It's dinner time, Craig. No phone calls," Steel tone, narrowed eyes, Craig's heart beating crazily in his chest.

"Uh, hey, Seth, I gotta go, okay? Yeah, okay. See ya tomorrow," He hung up the phone, still looking warily at his father.

"Jesus, Craig! Look at this fucking mess! Your school shit all over the place, your sneakers and jacket practically on the fucking floor! Your friends calling at dinner time! You just completely and totally disregard every rule! Don't you! Don't you!"

Still standing by the phone, frozen, he felt the rough hands on his shoulders, felt the rough shake, the words repeating. Tears coming to his eyes. He couldn't help it, couldn't help it. He was a terrible kid, just a terrible kid. He was shoved to the ground, the kitchen wall at his back, and he closed his eyes as the kicks and punches came. 


	6. Chapter 6

He couldn't eat now. He'd heard his dad throw stuff, maybe the plates of food off the table, maybe chairs, he didn't know. Something crashed before he stormed out. Craig closed his eyes, stayed where he was on the kitchen floor. Nothing really hurt yet. But it would. It would.

He stood up slowly, saw the mess. It had been both plates of food and the plates had broken and food was everywhere. He could hear his dad's voice in his head, 'clean it up,' He licked his lips, took a shuddery deep breath, and started to clean up the mess.

After these incidents he felt weird. It was a weird kind of anger. Hard to describe. He was already forgetting the details of what happened. He only remembered enough to be wary of his father, only really knew he'd been beaten by the bruises he'd start to see. Over the next few days he'd feel the ache from this and wonder about it for a second every time, then it would come back to him sort of. Being on the phone was clear. Standing up and seeing the mess in the kitchen was clear. Everything in between was a little fuzzy.

Years later, flipping through a girlfriend's psychology textbook, he'd come across a definition of sorts for it. A dissociative memory disorder. He'd read the passage with wide eyes and a sinking cold feeling, recognizing himself in it. That's what he did. Kept the memories separate as a defense mechanism. In eighth grade he had no words for it and only a vague sense that he was doing that at all.

The kitchen was clean enough. Craig threw the sponge toward the sink and headed upstairs, forcing himself to do homework despite feeling so numb, feeling the bruises on his wrists that were almost immediate, the delicate white skin marked with purple. He shook his head, dug out his textbooks and set them on his desk. He hoped his dad had left. Maybe he left for good.

He felt a cynical kind of hopelessness, doing this homework. What was the point of knowing this stuff, learning it? For the tests and papers he'd be graded on, sure, but what did this matter beyond that? If he ever needed any of this crap he could just look it up.

When the homework was done he put on the T.V. and flipped relentlessly through the channels. Music videos were good, flashy and fast. He didn't have the attention span right then for anything more involved, even sitcoms. Movies were out of the questions. The room dark except for the blue fickery glow of the T.V. set, Craig laid on the bed on top of the covers, still dressed.

He felt that funny tiredness he'd feel after his dad beat him. Like being drugged. Like being all wrapped up in cotton, insulated from everything. Warm and achy, it almost felt good. What was on the T.V. started to sound like it was coming from a great distance, the words and music kind of flowing together and Craig shut his eyes, the remote slipped from his hand and bounced on the rug.

He snapped awake when he heard the front door open and close, blinked slowly in the flickering light. He sat up, felt his breathing quicken, felt his heart beat faster. Heard the heavy footsteps cross the front hall and go into the kitchen, and he could hear lights being switched on despite the T.V. voices that babbled continuously. 'Don't come in here,' he thought/prayed. Maybe he wouldn't. He didn't always.

He could hear the footsteps on the stairs, heard the familiar creaks of certain risers. His breathing shallow now and his own voice screaming in his head, 'leave me alone!' and he heard his dad stop outside his door. He knew he wouldn't hurt him again, not tonight, if anything he'd apologize. Craig squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see him, talk to him, anything. Didn't want to listen to the apologies he always believed because he was stupid.

Small knock on the door and then it opened a crack.

"Craig?" No anger in that voice now, just a sort of guarded contrition. Craig sighed. No being left alone for him. Apparently that wasn't an option. He wished for that second that he was older, like 18 or 19 or 20, ages where no one bothers you if you don't want them to, where he could be alone, live alone, and not have to put up with this.


	7. Chapter 7

"Listen," his father said, and Craig looked at him. His face looked weird in the flickering glow of the T.V.

"I'm, I'm sorry,"

Craig closed his eyes. How many times could he hear this? Sorry wouldn't change anything.

"Okay," he said, hoping he would leave. After a moment of silence, a moment of him standing in the doorway, he did.

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"Craig!" He bolted upright at his name, confused and disoriented. He blinked. He was in school. He'd fallen asleep in school. Ms. Sanders was staring at him, half angry and half concerned.

He looked at her with caution, unsure of what she'd do. His breathing came in quick little gasps.

"How late do you stay up?" she said, and he seized on that for an excuse.

"Late. Real late. I'm, uh, I'm sorry,"

"Alright. See me after class,"

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His mood darkened. He ate lunch and listened to Seth babble about something, went to study hall and just stared into space. Staying after school. Again. It was all his dad's fault. Every time they had these "fights" he'd stay up late or not sleep good and fall asleep in school and then get in trouble. It sucked. His life sucked.

He went into Ms. Sanders class after school, his jacket on, his bag slung over his shoulder.

"Craig. Sit down," He took a seat in the first row, his legs stretched out in front of him.

"This isn't the first time you've fallen asleep in my class," she said, and he didn't say anything.

"Is it so boring?" she said, smiling at him. He shook his head no, and he recognized that she was trying to be nice and that she was more concerned than mad.

"What's going on? Is something wrong?" she said, her voice almost gentle. He swallowed, looked at her. Part of him wanted to tell her, tell someone, tell them how scared he was all the time and how he could never do anything right and how his father hit him, punched him, strapped him. But he swallowed the words. He couldn't say that. He couldn't say any of that.

"No. Everything is fine. I just, um, I just stay up too late sometimes,"

He couldn't tell if she believed him or not. He was good at lying. He did it all the time. But she looked unconvinced. He got the feeling that she might start watching him a little more closely. That was okay. He could keep up the charade, the mask, the false face. He could keep up the pretense that everything was just fine.

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Home. Supper. Dreaded time. He pushed his food around. Watched his father's eyes behind the glasses.

"Got a call from the school today," Albert said, and Craig felt adrenaline speed up his heart rate. Felt the glassy fear. Ms. Sanders must have called him. How could she?

He licked his lips, didn't say anything. He just waited.

"Your teacher said you fell asleep in class," Albert didn't seem angry, he didn't have that crackly energy that made Craig so jumpy. It was fine. He was worried, that was all. He sighed in relief.

"Yeah, I didn't feel good, and I just couldn't stay awake," He never lied better and more convincingly than when he was lying to his dad.

"Why did you go to school then?" Albert said, and Craig felt the tension drain away. He was looking out for his best interest, he was sorry he'd hit him the other day. He was safe.

"I had this test I didn't want to miss. I just didn't want to miss school. I thought I'd be okay," he said, feeling like he should win an Oscar for this performance.


	8. Chapter 8

"What is that?" Seth said. They were in art class and Craig had rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands. He looked to where Seth was pointing. The bruise was dark purple on his pale skin. He shoved his sleeve down, getting it wet at the edges.

"Nothing," he mumbled, not looking at him, feeling his face turning red from blushing, his cheeks burning.

"It's not nothing," Seth said, and Craig forced himself to look at him. Seth was looking at him with this critical concern, his unreal red hair falling into his eyes.

"It is. It's nothing,"

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Craig felt the circle tightening. His teacher catching him sleeping in class. Seth seeing that bruise. His father's unpredictability. Things felt like they were crashing down around him. He wasn't coping so well anymore. Not at all. And Seth wasn't letting it go. Lunchtime, chewing his tasteless baloney sandwich, feeling the ache of all the bruises hidden under his clothes.

"How'd you get that black and blue?" Seth said, and Craig sighed, geared up for another lie.

"I don't know. I probably just banged into something. It's no big deal,"

"Yeah? It looks like someone grabbed you there and left that mark, that's what it looks like," Craig could feel sorry for Seth. He didn't want to be saying this stuff, even though it was true, even though he was denying it up and down. He wanted to help him. He thought he was in trouble, and he was right. Craig swallowed the bite of his sandwich and felt it catch in his throat. What would he do if it was Seth? What if Seth was always falling asleep in school and showing up with unexplained bruises and acting all jumpy and nervous like he did? Wouldn't he want to help, somehow? But there was nothing he could do.

"Well, I don't know. I just banged into something, that's all,"

"Into what?" Seth said, looking straight into his eyes.

"I don't know," Craig shrugged and looked away. In a second he'd just get up and run. Skip the rest of the day, go hide somewhere, at some park or maybe he'd go to a museum. Somewhere else. Somewhere alone. Somewhere where he wouldn't have to deal with anyone.

"Craig, if someone's hurting you, like your dad or something, you should-"

"Uh, Seth, I gotta go. See ya," He stood up and backed away from the table, watching Seth watching him. It was getting too close. Too close for comfort. When he was close to the cafeteria door he turned around and ran. He kept running until he was outside in the cool, fresh air.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

He liked this museum. Liked the paintings that looked like real people, somehow breathing under the paint. He liked the landscapes that looked faded and almost sad. He read the names of the dead people who had painted them on the little plaques under the paintings. You really couldn't read the signatures, just a jumble of black letters in the corner of the canvas.

He liked being alone here, not being questioned. How was your day? Why did you fall asleep in school? Why did you fail the science test? Who is beating the shit out of you? He couldn't handle the questions.

Seth said if someone was hurting him he should…something. He'd cut him off at that point and ran. But what was Seth going to say? What should he do? Run away? Go to the police? Talk to his father? Got to counseling? See a psychiatrist? A doctor? Children's Aid? Find his step-father and move in with him? What? Just what was Seth's wise and sage advice going to be?


End file.
